


The Full Monster Experience

by SongAboutExiles



Series: Our Better Angels [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Blood and Gore, First Time, M/M, Mentions of Abuse (past), Methos is a Piece of Work, Post-Bordeaux, Snark, So is Duncan, mentions of rape (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles
Summary: Mac was snogging a monster - it almost made Methos want to sprout tentacles or something to really give him a hell of a show. Something to write home about. The full monster experience. But all he had was his own two hands and a mouth that kissed like sin.





	The Full Monster Experience

Methos didn't think about it very much. The Immortal thing. For a long time he did (How many times have I emptied a bottle of beer? How many times have I bathed? How many times have I fucked?), and that way, trust him, lay madness. Especially at his age.

He hadn't even had to trek to Kathmandu to meet an ancient lama to learn that lesson. Figured it out all by himself, he had, as he had most every problem he'd ever encountered. And those that couldn't be puzzled out, he reasoned with himself, could easily be solved by running the fuck away as quickly as possible. 

Far and fast, that was his motto.

So why was he still in Paris after leaving Bordeaux? Why was he still holed up in Adam Pierson's comfortably shabby little flat with his books and endless beers and maudlin self-examination?

Duncan Fucking MacLeod, of course. This time he might need to strap on snowshoes and find himself a sherpa. It was that bad. And he really didn't like the cold very much. So...

So fuck Duncan MacLeod and fuck himself for giving a shit what the man thought. Well into his sixth beer and third book of the evening, he was feeling the bravado. How dare Mac judge him for something that happened while cuneiform was still in its infancy? He might think he grew up around savages, but the man had never really had a passing acquaintance with true savagery. Eat or be eaten. Privileged little twat, was what he was.

Until he'd taken Kronos' head, and with it, his memories. Oh, he had no doubt that Mac had taken the heads of monsters. But legendary ones? Those memories must be settling in very badly indeed. Certain memories in particular. Ones that Methos would just as soon not ever see the light of day. Not the raids, not the killing...no. Now Mac knew what he and Kronos got up to at the end of the day.

And that, gods help him, bothered the everliving fuck out of him. Methos put aside his book and rubbed a hand over his face, levering himself up to deflower a brand new six-pack. Once he'd opened it, he leaned back against the fridge and closed his eyes. Another thing he'd learned a long time ago - sometimes the memories just came, and came, and came and there was nothing for it but to have a proper wallow and let them come. 

At first, it had been...fun? For some definition of fun. Rough, yes. Passionate, yes. Kronos was never gentle with him. Some sick part of him had treasured those first couple of centuries with Kronos, tucked them away. It was the first real pleasure he'd ever known, after all. 

He was fairly sure that even if it made him blush to the tips of his boy scout ears, Mac could deal with the gay. It was what came after, what it all devolved into, that made very sure Mac would never see him the same way again.

If Mac ever saw him again at all, having dismissed him as a monster. 

No, when it got to the point where Kronos started killing him at the moment of orgasm, or torturing him with knives and his own intestines just for kicks...that was when he was pretty sure Mac would just grey out altogether. Might, gods above forbid, feel sorry for him. 

Part of him, the cynical part he showed most everyone all damn day, wasn't the least bit surprised at the knock on the door and the most familiar buzz of Duncan MacLeod trailing ahead of it like some kind of expensive cologne used far too liberally. Of course Mac would turn up now, when he was drunk and maudlin and totally done with his shit. 

Sighing heavily and cursing the fact that he couldn't just pretend to not be home, Methos crossed the living room and opened the door. 

Mac looked like shit. And he'd seen him dead before, so that was saying something. 

"Christ, Mac. Come in." Methos stepped away from the door to allow the man's damned imposing form to pass, closing it behind him with what felt like finality. This was it, then. The big scene. "Beer?"

"Anything stronger?" Mac surveyed the comfortable wreckage of the flat like he always did, with a kind of vague dismay. 

"Yeah. Sit down. Just don't sit on my books." Methos cursed himself - that was the fifty-second time he'd said that to Mac. This was the one hundred twenty-fifth time the man had been to his flat. Madness. It was a-coming round the bend. Also, he was drunk.

He swayed fairly steadily to his kitchen cabinets, drawing out a bottle of, if he did say so himself, very good Scotch. He grabbed two glasses and curled himself up in his usual lanky ball at the end of the couch, watching Mac try and settle in the armchair. 

The business of opening the bottle and pouring two large drinks took another minute, maybe less. He cradled his glass in his hand, sipping and watching Mac over the rim. Mac chugged half his glass. 

"Figures you'd have Islay." The smoky peat scent of it filled the small space. 

"It reminds me of my mortal youth. Not sure why." He only dimly remembered being mortal, but the drink reminded him of smoky campfires on the high steppes, with the milky way spread across the endless sky. "I lost a wager with myself. I bet that I would never see you again. But since the bet was based on alcohol purchasing and consuming, I'd say it wasn't much of a bet to begin with."

"How can you joke right now?" Mac was offended, per the usual. "I can't get him to settle, Methos!" The offense turned to a raw, ragged pain that, much to his dismay, tugged hard on Methos' heart.

"I imagine he's being a right bastard."

"It's almost like he's sitting in the middle of my head, showing me a never-ending filmstrip of all the horrors he commited. I can't sleep, I can barely eat. I feel like a bloody great sitting duck." Mac rolled the tumbler of Scotch in his big hands, and Methos watched the motion - he was always fascinated with the man's hands. And his voice. And his fucking face. And his damnable decency.

"And you came here to...what? Berate me some more? To make yourself feel better?" Because if that was the plan, he was down for it, but it wasn't the way he'd wanted to spend his evening, thank you very much.

"No! I need your help! How did you deal with him? He's...revolting. Please, tell me how to shut him up." Clearly, Mac was somewhere halfway down to the end of his last nerve. Methos could relate. 

"Mac." He leaned forward a little tipsily from his perch. "I think part of the problem is that you know very well how I shut him up."

That brought Mac up short. "How could you? How could you let him do those things to you?"

"I was just thinking to myself earlier, before you barged in and ruined my nice evening of self-examination, that you really are a privileged twat. You just proved it, congratulations," Methos said bitterly, taking his own large gulp of liquid courage. If they were really doing this, he was going to need it. 

"What the hell do you mean? You let the man do things to you..." Mac was green around the gills. 

"You've never been in an abusive relationship." It was that simple. "At first, as I'm sure you noticed with breathtaking embarrassment, it was good. Then it degraded slowly, over time. The rougher he got, the more scared of him I got. I was not the best swordsman of that group, nor was I the most physical. He could have taken my head on a whim." From the distance of ages, he could say the words, but they still put a chill in his bones. "Eventually, you know I escaped."

"Are you trying to say you were just a poor victim the whole time?" Mac wasn't scoffing at him, he was deadly serious. If there was any pity in him, he wasn't showing it. 

"Fuck, no. I was his right hand. I was feared, respected, protected. I hid in plain sight for a thousand years with that monster, until I escaped. We held power, in a time where the powerless were expendable." Speaking of it so plainly was like picking at a long-buried scab in his heart. 

Mac shook his head slowly. "But you did leave, in the end. Did the glamour of it all go sour or were you just tired of being disemboweled and fucked at the same time?" Mac actually swore, a proper curse word, not some Scots gibberish. That meant the gloves were definitely fucking off. 

"You know what, Mac? It was a little bit of both," he spat, eyes flashing. "What do you want to hear from me? Leaving him was the hardest thing I have ever done. Can you even begin to understand?"

"No!" Mac spat back. "Just tell me how to shut him up!"

"You know how to shut him up. Give him what he wants." Kronos always was, essentially, a giant toddler. With a sword and a terrible disposition. Fueled by drunkenness (or so he would tell himself later - he was sober enough to get up and move without falling over a stack of books) he got to his feet and very deliberately put the glass down on the table before shucking his oversized jumper up over his head. "You know what he wants."

All the blood drained from Mac's face. "Think that much of yourself, do you?"

It was a weak retort, and he could tell Mac knew it. Methos was not playing at Adam Pierson right now. No, this was an older, truer version of himself, like overwriting a hard drive. "In some very specific," he said the word with very precise diction, "areas, yes, I do."

Maybe Mac was used to women fluttering and giggling around him (except for Amanda, who still, for all their history, did a fair bit of fluttering around Mac). Then it would make sense that he was not prepared for anyone, much less a man, much much less Methos, to present him with such an utterly self-confident come-on. 

"So do you want him to quiet down and behave himself, or don't you?" Finding his flow, despite the knots in his guts that it had finally come to this, but at such a great big bloody cost, Methos slid across Mac's lap, laying one elegant hand on either side of his face. "It's a fairly simple question. Lower your standards to fuck a man, a monster, in his own bed, or be tortured by another monster in every dream. Forever."

Mac looked like easily a dozen things were swirling around his mind and ready to come out of his mouth, but Methos felt the hardness of Mac's cock trapped against his leg by his jeans. He wasn't sure when he'd got hard himself, but it was unmistakable. He knew how this was going to end. 

It would end in tears. Probably his.

In the end, Mac kept his mouth shut and lunged forward, grabbing Methos by the back of his long neck and jerking him forward into a mess of a kiss, hungry and demanding and filthy as fuck. That was all Mac. Kronos never kissed him. Not once.

That's why this was so easy. For all the venom boiling inside him, this was Mac. Trusted, trustworthy, and ultimately, for all the good it did Methos, beloved. At the thought, Methos just surrendered, let Mac in, gave back as good as he got and more. 

Mac was snogging a monster - it almost made Methos want to sprout tentacles or something to really give him a hell of a show. Something to write home about. The full monster experience. But all he had was his own two hands and a mouth that kissed like sin. 

It did other things sinfully well, too. Breaking off the kiss despite Mac's death grip on his neck, he slithered down between strong thighs and stared up at Mac as he got the button and zip of his jeans open, reaching inside the thick fabric to shove down his pants and take out his cock.

That cock, he thought, most certainly didn't disappoint. Methos laved a stripe up the swollen length, then swirled his tongue around the already-exposed head, nipping ever so lightly at the delicate frenulum before swallowing it all the way down in one practiced, smooth movement. 

Mac gasped and went for the back of neck again. His fixation was downright endearing, Methos thought, before reminding himself of the parameters of this assignation. Didn't change the fact that, gods, he loved sucking cock. 

Say what you will about the boy scout, but he was no coward. He kept his eyes locked with Methos' as Methos proceeded to bob his head, and do things with his tongue. Things that made Mac's pupils blow and precome leak heavily onto that questing tongue. 

Once again, Methos had to fight Mac's grip on his neck to pull of his cock, detecting the telltale signs that Mac was close. Too close. A blow job, even one as fine as the one Methos was providing, wasn't enough to exorcise Mac's demons. Or his own, whispered an unwelcome voice in his head.

He got to his feet and shucked off his jeans and boxers, standing in front of Mac, all long legs and lithe grace and hard, flushed prick. No getting around what he was, who he was. Finally, he broke eye contact with Mac long enough to turn and walk toward his bedroom. Halfway there, he turned and looked back. "You're coming?"

Methos caught Mac staring at his ass, and it was really quite an ass. Startled into action, Mac stood and shed his jacket and tee shirt before following him. Rather obediently, too - Kronos must be practically purring in his head. Satisfied, Methos finished the short journey and crawled up on the bed, sprawling on his back with his legs spread. 

It occurred to Methos that Mac wasn't likely to bother with prepping him, and, Immortal healing or not, he wasn't much for being fucked dry. So it came to pass that the first thing Mac saw when walked in was Methos fucking himself with two spit-slick fingers. 

Mac growled, actually growled, and got all the way naked in a heartbeat before crawling up the bed toward Methos and grabbing his fingers, pulling them out as his eyes fixed on Methos' hole with a single-minded intent. Oh yes, Methos thought. This is what Kronos wants. 

In moments, he felt the broad head of Mac's cock pierce him. Hissing, he just spread his legs wider and pushed down, taking it, his own erection defiantly lying flush against his flat belly. No one took his pleasure from him anymore, certainly not Kronos and definitely not a whelp of a boy scout who hadn't even seen his 500th birthday. 

Methos knew that Mac had probably never treated a lover like this in his whole life, with this single-mindedness, this complete and utter focus. It was as heady as it was rough, Mac slamming into him over and over until he felt his toes start to curl.

And then, most probably by accident, Mac brushed his prostate. Over and over. Methos was somewhat ashamed to admit that he whimpered, twisting his body as he hurtled toward orgasm. His short nails clawed at Mac's broad back, and he rose up to meet every brutal thrust. 

The climax hit him like a fucking freight train, and he was none too quiet about it as he spurted up over his belly. Fucking glorious, he thought muzzily, still clawing Mac's back as he howled at the sudden tightening around his prick and followed Methos down.

It figured. It just fucking well figured that it would be glorious with Mac, even in these degraded circumstances. 

Mac, who rolled off him and promptly passed right the fuck out.

Asshole.

At least he could tell that Mac was truly asleep, probably for the first time in days, and not just trying to avoid awkward pillow talk. Methos leaned over and brushed Mac's sweaty, tangled hair off his forehead and pressed a light kiss just there. There would be no sleep for him that night. He knew it as surely as he knew Mac wasn't waking up anytime soon.

He sat up and wiped himself down with a corner of the sheet and went to fetch the Scotch from the living room. If he was going to have a bloody long, dark night of the soul, he wasn't doing it sober. 

Somewhere around four in the morning, he made his decision. Run. Far and fast. By the time the slanting rays of morning sunshine woke Mac at last, he had fished his laptop out from under the bed and was booking tickets to Tibet. He just had one stop to make, and then he was gone. Maybe someday he'd turn up on Mac's doorstep like a lost puppy. Maybe not. 

Mac looked over at him, then down at himself, apparently somewhat relieved that Methos had covered him with the duvet. He cautiously pulled himself upright and looked at Methos, clearly not having a clue what to expect.

"Don't fret, Mac. I'm leaving. Late tonight." Methos closed the laptop and set it aside. 

"I...don't know what to say." Mac was such a gentleman, but this situation was so alien to him a convocation of little grey men might as well be surrounding them, taking notes on Immortal psychology.

Methos could have spared them the trouble. It could be summed up in two simple words: utterly fucked. "Say whatever you want, Mac."

"Goodbye, Methos." His voice was rough, and he slid out from under the duvet and gathered his clothes, putting them deliberately. 

Methos said nothing, just watched him, as he opened the door and shut it behind him. They were fitting last words, after all, and he wasn't one to step on someone else's moment.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been broiling in my brain for more than a decade, until Methos decided tonight that enough was fucking enough. Sequels/additional chapters in the pipeline.


End file.
